


Bigger than the universe

by Mikaeru



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anthony "Janxiety Attack" Crowley, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Extraordinary amounts of fluff, First Time, Fluff, Look I tried!!, M/M, No beta I fall like the forgotten child of God I am, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikaeru/pseuds/Mikaeru
Summary: "Would you like to open your lips for me, dearest?"A witch must have seized his voice, for Crowley finds himself unable to reply. He feels his heart furiously beating all around his body, and even outside, a reminder that he has one, and it's as big as oceans, and has Aziraphale's name all over. He simply nods, and tightens his arms around Aziraphale's neck. He feels rather silly and foolish, being this nervous over carnal matters. He has definitively gone native, trembling and blushing during his first time. How stupid was the concept of virginity anyway? It was his doing and he has ended believing in it like a moron. But it's his angel, and there's nothing he can do, and he can't help wanting everything to be perfect like in one of those stupid romantic novels he pretends to hate but listens to nevertheless when Aziraphale reads them out loud.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 164
Collections: COWT - Clash Of the Writing Titans/Chronicles Of Words and Trials





	Bigger than the universe

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! This a fill for the lovely kinkmeme prompt https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=1960281#cmt1960281, and for the most famous Italian Challenge, COW-T, M2, with the prompt "worshipping". This is reeeeeeally fluffy, and probably super OOC and super self-indulgent, but I had fun and I love them and they're soft. English is not my native language but I was too eager to post this, so if you catch any typos or grammatical error please let me know! I took this also as an exercise to improve my English. And excuse me for my rather small vocabulary. I'm still learning! Love y'all!!!!

Everything started in a garden. But this particular story starts on the first floor of a cluttered bookshop, one that used to welcome only more rare and dusty books and now is a master bedroom (designed by Jane Austen and Beatrix Potter's lovechild) with the most comfortable bed, especially thought for naps and cuddle sessions.

The air is still, dimly lit, and as sweet as peaches. London is quiet and sleepy because Aziraphale wanted so, and the bookshop is covered by a heavy blanket of a miracle. His hands are soft and his voice is pink powder against Crowley's skin.

"I love you very much, my darling."

Crowley is still under his kisses, but every organ in him is trembling, too full of water and newborn stars. ("I helped to make those ones," Aziraphale has said one sunny spring afternoon, kissing him on his heart) His legs are still closed; Aziraphale is bent at his side, kissing him and kissing him, honey kisses on his jaw, daisy kisses on his temple, and kisses as red as summer cherries on his mouth.

"Would you like to open your lips for me, dearest?"

A witch must have seized his voice, for Crowley finds himself unable to reply. He feels his heart furiously beating all around his body, and even outside, a reminder that he has one, and it's as big as oceans, and has Aziraphale's name all over. He simply nods, and tightens his arms around Aziraphale's neck. He feels rather silly and foolish, being this nervous over carnal matters. He has definitively gone native, trembling and blushing during his first time. How stupid was the concept of virginity anyway? It was his doing and he has ended believing in it like a moron. But it's his angel, and there's nothing he can do, and he can't help wanting everything to be perfect like in one of those stupid romantic novels he pretends to hate but listens to nevertheless when Aziraphale reads them out loud. His angel is touching him, and not accidentally, not just brushing his hand or his shoulder. He's touching him with a deep desire, one so strong it makes rivers reverse their course. As much as Crowley can't believe this, can't believe he's so lucky ( _I'm so fucking lucky I can't believe it, how is this my life? What did I do to deserve this?_ , he thought the first time Aziraphale has kissed him, barely capable of fighting back tears. His body was not covered in skin anymore, just grape shaped nerves.)

"Thank you," says Aziraphale, licking him once again, then deepening the kiss, and Crowley feels fireworks in his belly. Is love always meant to be like this? To be a screaming, kicking thing, to conquer your body and your soul and surrounding them to the one you adore the most? (Crowley has fought with teeth and nails against the concept of having a soul, but he indeed has one, against his better judgement, and it's shaped like an apple that has Aziraphale's fingerprints all over its skin.)

"Angel-" he's finally able to say, but that's it, he can't form anything else. He simply moans in his mouth as Aziraphale gently touches his hips, stroking them with butterfly touches. He wants Crowley naked, and Crowley knows it, but it's still too much, unbearable. He's afraid that, without clothes, his body would expand in the air, swallowing the earth whole. He's unstable matter.

"Can I ask you to open your legs for me, my love? Are you ready for that, lisichka?"

Crowley giggles at the pet name (Aziraphale was most delighted when he remembered that. Little fox, it means in Russian, and he has found it oh so sweet) and slowly lets Aziraphale kneels between them.

"There you are, my sweet, thank you," he smiled, and there isn't anything more dear to Crowley that that, "There's a darling, there's my wonderful Crowley."

All of Crowley's face is aflame, because Aziraphale is made of clotted cream and butter, but it's Crowley the one who's melting. He presses his cheek against the hand that's caressing it, kisses its palm, while Aziraphale chuckles, pressing kisses on his forehead, his neck.

"Can you tell me how are you feeling, heartling? I'm afraid I'll need your words."

Crowley gulps, his fists against Aziraphale, lightly holding his shirt. He feels like a dawn. "'s good, angel, better than good, it's absolutely perfect, it's - you know I don't have a way with words, I..."

"Oh, that was all I wanted to hear, my boy, thank you."

Aziraphale speaks in such a gentle, reassuring way that Crowley would believe him if he said that the sky is purple. He loves him so much it's everything he can think about. (and his warm skin, his spring eyes, of being pressed against the mattress and – and what?)

“What are thinking about, sweetheart?”

(he's panting under Aziraphale, his body scorching, but it's too much, he can't handle it, it's-)

“Amore?”

( _breath, Crowley, breath. Don't let your imagination get the best of you_.)

“You'll make me forget my own name at this rate-” he manages to say, ordering the black slimy monster inside his guts to keep quiet, Aziraphale isn't doing anything Crowley doesn't want to and everything is perfect. (it's so perfect he wants to cry. Humans call it anxiety, but humans are silly.)

“Oh,” smiles Aziraphale, kissing him under his Adam's apple, “it's Crowley, then,” a kiss on his chin, “Crowley,” a kiss on his nose, “Crowley,” and it's a fairy whisper on his eyelashes, and his name has shed its old skin, and now it's pink and bright and gold and green like a pasture, and just as infinite. “Crowley, Crowley, Crowley.” His name is a vibration on his tongue, r vaguely round and l smooth live a lake pebble.

“Oh,” smiles Crowley this time, holding one of his hands. There's a golden band he kisses like a knight kisses his bride, “but I like the pet names.”

“And I like calling you cute little things, slonce mojego zycia. To make up for all the “foul fiend” and “demon” and “We're not friends”.”

Aziraphale's eyes were twinkling the first time he said he was sorry, shiny and almost wet. He wasn't one to cry, and that was the nearest thing – voice thin as a thread and full of sorrow and eyes full of autumnal dead leaves. Crowley didn't like that, for Aziraphale was made of nice summers and orange picnics in a strawberry field. (there was, obviously, winter inside him, but not the bleak kind, but the kind made of slippery roads and snowballs thrown in the face.)

Crowley initiates the kiss, arms around his neck. Nose in his hair, Crowley breathes him; dust and sugar and light blue and a blessing that doesn't hurt, for it's tailored on Crowley. “But you were right. I'm a foul fiend.”

“You're naughty at best. A nuisance.”

“And I'm a demon.”

“That you are.”

“And we're not friends.”

“We aren't?”

“We were married before the humans had a word for it. You -” _You were the reason the word love was invented, you were the reason the humans started praying to angels and believing in them_. But words are too heavy, sticky and hot, and they're stuck in his throat. ( _I'm so lucky, I'm so lucky._ )

“Oh, my star,” Aziraphale laughs, delicate as oxygen, as if he has read inside Crowley's head. (wouldn't that be useful? Writing poems, comedies, trilogies, even new Bibles about his love, and never having to say them out loud.) Aziraphale's hands are whispering sweet nothings on Crowley's legs with his hands, and suddenly Crowley wants to be naked, wants his warmth and to know exactly every road of his fingertips; he wants to recognize him with his fingers and his tongue if Hell decides to take his eyes out as a trophy. He starts to fumble with the belt, but Aziraphale gently stops him.

“Let me do it, mon coeur. Tonight I'm your servant.”

“No,” Crowley protests, eyes wide, “never my servant. Only my – love and – husband, never below me -”

“Then I only want you to feel good, and I want to do all the work so it will be only my merit and you won't be able to claim anything. How does it sound?”

Crowley chuckles, deeply kisses him. “Sounds on brand.”

“We're good to go, then.”

His jeans slide off effortlessly (Crowley suspects the smallest miracle) and Aziraphale kisses and bites and licks the newly exposed skin, making him moan. He particularly likes the teeth scraping the tender skin inside of his thighs. He still has his shirt and underwear, but he feels especially ridiculous with his socks on. He whines, kicking his foot once, and Aziraphale understands. He nods, smiling.

“My beautiful king,” he says, kissing the arches of his feet.

Crowley's brain is a talkative, overreacting thing, more often than not murmuring and hissing, its voice swinging from a child's shrieking to an undertaker's growl, and this is especially true when he is in this state, the totally-not-anxiety-humans-and-their-stupid-and-useless-labels. And now he can't not thinking about Aziraphale's past lovers, how many of them he called sweetheart and precious, how many men he has taken to bed before him, and how many of them mattered. A thorn punctures between his ribs, and is slightly poisoned.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale stops licking his stomach (he's a little ticklish, but now he doesn't mind) and immediately checks his face for any sign of discomfort.

(they were in Japan, during a long winter in 1766, because somehow Aziraphale had tricked Heaven to station him in Kyoto until the spring, when he had sworn that people would have been more inclined to bad deeds he would promptly thwart, and that he obviously needed to be there for a long time to meddle with the locals, learn their habits. He just wanted to see the blooming cherry trees with his eyes, and eat a lot of rice sweets. Crowley had had a quarrel with a particularly nasty water demon over some trivial matters – probably something so shamefully stupid Crowley has buried it somewhere far away - and Aziraphale was nursing him to health. They had stayed ten days in the same house, something so grand Crowley was sure some kind of miracle or bribing was involved, never even poking their nose out the window, and Aziraphale was in the habit to check on him every three hours, even when it was clear that Crowley was perfectly well. They were tipsy, one night, on a very good sake they didn't appreciate enough, and Aziraphale was sitting very close to him, and looked in his eyes when he said he really cared about him, that seeing him in so much pain was one of the most distressing things he had ever experienced in his life. Crowley's heart had grown three sizes bigger.)

“Is everything all right, my darling demon? You were silent for a bit, are you okay? You know we can stop anytime you want, you absolutely know I won't be cross.”

“'s all good. I was just –“ he swallows, “wondering is all.”

“Would you like to tell me what about?”

“Just... how many humans did you fuck before me?” Crowley manages to say, thinking that dancing around the point was of no use.

Aziraphale is taken slightly aback - “Oh.” - and doesn't talk for a few seconds. ( _They're so many he can't remember?_ Crowley panics, feeling stupid for that. Why should it matter?)

“I don't know, my love. I never kept scores. More than a few, I'm afraid.”

“Oh,” Crowley echoes. But Aziraphale catches him before he falls, taking his face in his hands, with a kiss so deep and full it's barely understandable.

“But they never mattered, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, frantically, desperate to be heard and believed in, “nothing mattered before I was able to hold you. I have always thought about you when intimate with an human, I – oh, Crowley, my darling, it's always been you, even when I so desperately wanted to be blind. You're my heart and my soul and nothing can compare.”

“Oh,” Crowley repeats, and suddenly starts laughing, a weightless tickling in his throat. He feels silly and cherished and – good. He hugs Aziraphale, covers him with kisses that Aziraphale reciprocates.

“I love you so much, Crowley,” he says, as sweet as a nightingale's song. Crowley exposes his throat to more kisses, and Aziraphale makes an appreciative noise, and starts to kiss it with gusto.

“Can I take your shirt off, love?”

Crowley nods, and helps him. A new round of kisses, and Crowley feels boneless, feels like he's turning into something shapeless, but not in the way he feared – rather something delicate, something that Aziraphale can keep in his hands.

“You can take my pants off too.”

“I would be glad, if you want to.”

“Sure thing, angel, otherwise I wouldn't have said so.”

Aziraphale smiles, and now he's completely naked, and it doesn't feel rough and scary as he thought. Embarrassing, too open and soft, but there's Aziraphale, he can't float away, he can't be hurt. He opens his legs again. His sex is revealed, glistening like a pearl.

“Didn't feel like a cock...”, Crowley mumbles, feeling a bit foolish. He knows that Aziraphale is more attracted to traditionally male efforts, but nobody said that men couldn't have a vagina (well, a lot of people say that, but they're cunts) and he felt like challenging him, wanted to know if his angel would be willing to have him in this form. And Aziraphale's face opens like a hymn.

"Oh, you made such a beautiful effort for me, my darling. So lovely. How lucky am I to have you? My fortune is much deeper than the universe, and expanding every second."

Crowley's hands are fidgety, he doesn't know where to keep them. He decides to use them to hide his face.

"'m the lucky one..."

Aziraphale takes his wrists, kisses them, kisses Crowley on the cheeks. He's so soft and delicate Crowley can't believe he has been a warrior once.

"I beg to differ. I'm savouring the finest demon in Hell and you're stuck with a dull principality. I strongly suspect I'm the winner here.”

“You're not dull! You're dumb, not dull.”

“And why am I dumb?”

“'cause you chose me.”

Aziraphale caresses a cheek with his thumb.

“Oh, my precious, as if I even had a choice. You stormed in me, demanding all of me without a word, and I let you make a mess of me, because I knew – from the first instant I knew – that you would leave me whole as I never was before.”

How can he say such things with a completely straight face, without wishing to be swallowed by Hell? Crowley hiccups, his useless organs all a knot, hiding his face in the crook of Aziraphale's neck – here he's tempted to take a bite, and he does so, and licks the slightly red mark. Here his taste is a light crimson, bells attached to a peacock. (how can he be so lucky? He taught Dante about the contrappasso, he let him see something no human should have been able to see; when will it catch up with Crowley, biting off his head and spitting out his heart?)

Crowley takes his hand and, feeling quite brave, pulls two of his fingers in his mouth, scraping the tips with his teeth, tongue swirling around the pads and the length. Aziraphale watches him, transfixed.

“Would you like something more, darling?”

“I – I think I was rather clear about that, angel,” stutters Crowley, blushing once again.

Aziraphale traces his contours with a finger, and Crowley is already shivering, clawing the pillows under him. He trembles his name twice, lips parted and eyes closed, suspended on a tightrope. Slowly, Aziraphale starts teasing his clit, toying with it, rubbing slightly; he goes from it to his entrance, stroking him while whispering how beautiful he is, how pretty he looks all pink and flushed, and it feels so good it's almost unreal, the waves capture him and - “AH!” he screams when a finger slides in him, and Aziraphale retreats it instantly, and Crowley whines loudly.

“I'm alright, angel, I was just surprised, you didn't hurt me, please please please -”

And Aziraphale is inside him again, moving so slowly it's almost excruciating, but he loves every long second of it. He opens his legs wider, feeling his scales popping over his arms and thighs, just scattering over his skin, and before he can mutter anything (is it distressing to him? Is it too much?) Aziraphale is smiling at him, saying how pleased he is, because he knows that it only happens when Crowley is really overwhelmed and he's so happy to have made him forget himself. It's too much, but a shade he can bear, and Crowley fists the front of Aziraphale's shirt with one hand, the other tight around the sheets, not worrying about the chance of shredding any of that; he arches his back when Aziraphale adds another finger, still slowly going in and out, not rushing it, squeezing every inch of pleasure from Crowley.

“You're so beautiful, my Crowley,” he softly licks the words once again, going faster now, and they are charged with such sentiment, with such a pleasant heaviness (a wool cape during the winter, a sudden storm in the middle of a scorching Greek august, a shout after a year of silence, “You're forgiven”) that breaks Crowley, and he starts to cry as he comes. The tears are a relief, as his orgasm shakes his body and leaves him full of spring air. His breath is heavy, and he realizes he has closed his eyes only when he opens them, and sees Aziraphale looking at him like everything beautiful in the world is squeezed in him. Aziraphale licks his own hand and dares to giggle “You're delicious, love”, but Crowley is too much exhilarated to be embarrassed – well, maybe just a bit.

“I didn't know angels were so shameless.”

“And I didn't know demons could be such delicate things.”

He nearly protests he's not a delicate thing – he's not a flower or a teacup – but the smirk on Aziraphale's lips makes him giggle, then laugh.

“We were never as they wanted us to be.”

“Thanks Someone, as you say.”

And then a kiss, and a kiss, and another thousand kisses. At some point, when his lips almost hurt, Crowley notices the tent in Aziraphale's trousers, and swallows.

“'m – ready, if you want to -”

With two fingers in his bowtie, Crowley captures his mouth, moving his hips against him, grinding. But Aziraphale stops him. “Oh, no, Crowley, heart of mine.” he strokes his flushed cheek, cards his fingers through his hair. (“You're always stunning, my dear, but with longer hair you were positively a vision. You were in my dreams more than once with your hair to your waist, rivers of red in which I was lost in like a goldfish. Could you please change your hair? Just a bit over the shoulder, if you please, and just for a couple of days. That would make me so happy.” But, obviously, from that day Crowley has kept his hair to his hips, so he could shiver under Aziraphale's expert braiding.) “You're not, you're nervous and tense. This was already a big step, and I'm so proud of you for taking me so well.”

“But you want to – I can suck you off, I -”

“You will do nothing of the kind, sweetling.”

“But you're – you want to -”

“Darling, could you please, for me, calm down a little bit and tell me if you're really feeling up to going further? I think you don't, but I am not inside your head.”

Aziraphale is scratching his skull, and he feels like the most spoiled being in the universe. (it's nice and comforting and so sweet it hurts a little, but Crowley tries to kick those feeling of unworthiness under the rug he proceeds to light on fire; today he manages to destroy just a fringe, even a hidden one, but who knows about tomorrow?) He doesn't want to think, he just wants to please Aziraphale, and he knows perfectly well how much his angel likes to fuck.

(he's naked under him, forehead shiny with sweat and hair plastered to his skin; Aziraphale takes his legs and puts them over his shoulders and penetrates him deeper, and Crowley is overwhelmed by the smell and the sounds and the guttural voice of his angel - “You're so good for me, Crowley, so wet and tight” and he likes this part, likes being praised, wants to be good for his angel – but then “Would you like to be on your knees, darling? There's a love, offering himself so prettily to his husband” and he's so much exposed and can't see Aziraphale but only the sheets and everything is so loud and squelching and messy and -)

Aziraphale kisses his knuckles, stopping his brain. He's on Earth again, in London, with the love of his existence who's looking at him with worried eyes, a hue so darling Crowley feels guilty to love. ( _He cares about me. I'm so lucky, I'm so lucky._ )

“Stop thinking, cuore mio, you're hurting yourself.”

He hugs Aziraphale tighter, legs around his waist, feeling his breath on his neck. _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , he says in Morse. “Don't hate me...”, he mumbles, kissing his ear and neck multiple times, making him shiver.

“How could I?”

“'s not your fault I don't wanna have sex right now, 's mine...”

(He feels broken and stupid. So much for going too fast; now he's going too slow, like a bird with just a wing.)

“Oh, darling, but we had sex. Just a second ago. I was in you, wasn't I?”

Crowley looks him in the eyes, feeling a tiny bit more relaxed. But the petulant Contrary Mary in him still wants to object.

“But you haven't fucked me...”

“Oh I have fucked you all right, darling boy. Penetrative sex with a penis is not the only type of sex, you know.”

“I do know, angel, I'm a fucking demon! I was just thinking you'd be more – satisfied, if you...”

“I'm perfectly content as I am. It would be a step too big for you now. Also, we have all the time in the world, liebling.”

He knows very well that his angel can cheat and lie, but he can't sense anything but the truth. ( _I'm so lucky, I'm so lucky._ ) And so he has to, once again, trust him completely.

“... can we stay in bed, though? Don't wanna get up for, like, a month.”

Aziraphale laughs, kissing his temple. “I'm sure we can manage a day full of cuddles.”

Oh, he loves cuddles. With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale puts him in soft, black pyjamas, and gently manoeuvrers both of them under the covers. His body is regaining its contours, an inch per minute.

“Do you feel like eating something, my dear? Some chocolate, or perhaps some fruit? I've just bought the most delectable apricots, I'm sure you'd like them.”

Crowley pretends to think about it, snuggling up against his chest.

“I'd like peanut butter cups. If you hand feed me them. And a strawberry milkshake, that awfully chemical McDonald's thing that you abhor. And can we watch something? The Babadook is on Netflix now, and you haven't seen it yet, and that's illegal.”

“Oh, Crowley, really? A horror movie? Shouldn't something romantic be better? There's a quite delightful adaptation of -”

“No. There aren't any jumpscares, you'll be fine. But if you're scared, you know I'm always here to save you.”

Aziraphale breathes a light laugh, combing his hair. “Oh, yes, my brave knight, my perfect husband.”

(oh, how much he likes that word. _Husband_. So full of promises, of hopes, of evergreen forests. Of everlasting oaths, like the one they took in an open field months ago, under a full moon, their wings shining.)

“It me.”

“It's you.”

“No, you were supposed to reply it you, without the verb.”

“I won't ever do anything of the kind.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Yes, I'm a monster, dear, and I don't care about your well-being at all.”

“Now you're being dramatic.”

“I'm married to you, after all.”

They laugh again, and kiss again, and then there are peanut butter cups, Crowley's computer, and a milkshake that will not melt because Aziraphale said so. _I'm so lucky_ , they think in unison.


End file.
